Evan Parker Review in Stroud News and Journal

There are sounds a man can make blowing over a reed that bring down the walls.  What Evan Parker does with his breath and dance of his fingers on the keys of the alto saxophone  amaze, astonish and literally blow one away.
Thoughts vanish – impossible to compete with such vastness of expression.

He frees us from the prison of our minds.  As Evan said quietly between the first astonishing  riff and the next at SVA last Saturday night.  ‘I have been playing so long, improvising to free myself and now I wonder if I am not creating another prison’.  For us the listeners the opposite felt to be the truth.
His humble genius freed us, transported us on a voyage of discovery that had no destination, offered no solace, quite simply released us from ourselves.

I am not a musician. I do not understand music but then the beauty of music is that one does not have to understand, merely listen.  I had no idea what to
expect, not having heard Evan Parker before, but with the first notes I was
jolted, jangled, shaken free, then I felt a physical jolt in my mind and I lost

The next morning, I wrote.  I died last night.  It was a beautiful experience
and today it is raining. I died last night inhabited by a sound that annulled
all the brain cells clamouring  attention leaving a perfect void to receive and
let go into.  All the bird song ever woken and the distant hoots of trains,
waves on the shore, snow silent as an empty page, love’s ache, bars of the cage  – all vanished, for a man with a saxophone explored and discovered the timeless- ness of breath passing over a reed aided by the thoughtlessness of fingers.

Evan Parker

This is the man

It is a long time since I have experienced the essence of art – ‘the expression of the inexpressible.’  I did last Saturday experiencing the music of Evan Parker.

Rightly he has been described as ‘one of music’s greatest living
instrumentalists’. (The Times)

The First Time I Met Death

The first time I met death he was holding a furled umbrella.
His jacket sleeve was pinstriped, a couple of inches of white shirt sleeve
beneath secured by a gold cuff link embossed
with an emblem – a crown surrounded by delicate tracery of leaves.
I saw this when I stooped to look under the tilted train.
He must have been gripping the umbrella when the wheels left the tracks
in the hurtling dark.
He could not have known what happened in that instant.
That is all I saw of him – death –
that arm and hand and the tightly rolled black umbrella.
I tried but could not imagine the rest of him
meshed into the mangled metal
of the prematurely arrived carriage – first class, I saw.
It was a mystery how his arm and hand and that umbrella
had survived intact
Hanging there above the torn earth.

I met death again years later,
in Nepal at the burning ghats of Pashu Parti
with the ash daubed Sadhus smoking chillums,
monkeys keeping watch in the trees.
A child no more than ten, his hair combed, his face innocent
as fire when it took hold, peeled back his eye lids,
stretched his lips into a smile.
His mother watched her son to ashes she sprinkled on to the slow river.

The last time death appeared to me was my father
in his bed at the care home. Eyes closed,
blue striped pyjama jacket buttoned to his neck
which he would not have done. His face had sunk.
Two doves that had kept watch over him those last weeks
from a roof visible from his bed, looked in.
He had been glad of their presence his last days
‘though he had called them vain.

Now, I sometimes meet the dawn in an old cemetery close by.
I read the inscriptions, touch the worn stones but do not meet death.
She is not here, but, an intimation grows – vain?-
I would like to see that moment coming

(The train crash was at Hither Green on Nov 5th 1967. 40 died.)